


Unconditional

by Yeah_JSmith



Series: Kinky Lawyers AU [4]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Based on a True Story, Birth Control Failure, But Nick is Supportive, F/M, Judy Gets a Little Hammered in This One, Judy's Boss is a BAMF, Mentions of Judy/OC, Miscarriage, One Night Stands, Setup for a Future Case, Soft Judy, Soft Prejudice, Suggestions of Future Dynamics, Unethical Medicine, Unplanned Pregnancy, Very Mild Worldbuilding, blowjob, soft nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 02:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeah_JSmith/pseuds/Yeah_JSmith
Summary: One day, Judy comes in late to their usual booth, in their usual bar, and it's funny, because Nick didn't even know it was "theirs" until she smelled so much unlike herself.Or; Judy deals with the fallout of a one-night stand gone horribly wrong, Nick decides what he wants, and society is garbage, but they'll do all right.(This one gets dark, so the rest of the series doesn't have to be.)





	Unconditional

**Author's Note:**

> So. Y'all. Please, please note the tags. They are there for a reason. Content warnings are important for potentially triggering topics, and I've done so. _Don't read this_ if you're going to be hurt by the topics at hand. (Good news, though: this is a one-shot so that it can stand alone, as the rest of the series is much, much lighter.)
> 
> This was always part of the plan, and it's honestly why this installment has taken so long; I wrote most of it before I even posted _In Defense of the Indefensible,_ because this is a true story worth telling that sets up a future case, but I've been really hesitant to post it. I have a whole big long thing at the bottom full of justifications, and maybe I should have led with the fact that I'm going to probably make people uncomfortable with a few of the topics I talk about, but it's not like I've never done that before. My "best seller" is a novel-length BDSM murder mystery in which Judy pulls a seduction scam on an abusive shitbag who's too much like Nick for anyone's comfort. At this point can anyone really expect me to not incorporate uncomfortable concepts? (Yeah, Jay. Stop stalling. You've been staring at that "post without preview" button for h o u r s.)

She doesn't touch the drink he had waiting for her when she walked into the bar, uncharacteristically late, dressed in a casual checked dress that looks like it belongs to someone’s great-grandmother. She smells new and old and angry; in addition to her overall (equally uncharacteristic) grouchy mood, it takes him a moment to understand. It hits him like a punch to the sternum. “You're pregnant.”

“Guess so,” she replies, adding an unenthusiastic _yay_ to give it a little less punch.

It’s not like either of them said anything definite about whatever it is they have brewing between them. Both of them could have, and it’s not like Judy hasn’t _tried,_ but there have been so many reasons not to commit. They’re friends, _good friends,_ which is hard to find when all of your associates are workaholics who wake up at 3AM from nightmares about missing deadlines or bar complaints. They are _officially_ “opposing counsel,” and there’s a degree of thrill in the kind of illicit attraction that implies. And frankly, they’re _busy._ Nick’s sometimes gone weeks without hearing from Judy, and even though he can probably count her as one of his best friends, _that’s not weird._ Relationships are hard. It’s been so easy to take for granted that eventually they’ll fall in together that he never considered the idea that she might not wait for him to accept one of her not-so-subtle advances.

He knows the scent of her arousal, the way she takes her coffee, the intimate curve of her lower back. She knows he bends his finger joints to stave off carnal urges, his distaste for bitter flavors, the feel of his claws across her fur. Aside from that one kiss they’ve been content to pretend didn’t happen, it’s been platonic between them, sometimes to the point of stilted professionalism, but it would be a lie to say it’s been innocent. Her eyes burn into his when they discuss proposed legislation over drinks. His paw lingers just a bit too long against hers when they exchange documents. She laughs now when he calls her Carrots. He dreams now about her teeth at his neck.

 _Study you for weeks and beat you into submission,_ she texted him once, and it wasn’t meant for him, but it certainly prodded at desires he’s always kept himself from thinking about. Only recently has he even allowed them headspace, and now...

He feels like he’s lost something, even though he never had it to begin with, even though this is his fault. She made her position clear, and it’s not fair to be upset with her for moving on. So. Smile. Congratulate. He can be heartbroken on his own time, but for now, he should probably be a good friend. “Who’s the lucky buck, then?”

“Wouldn't call him lucky,” she mumbles, but her voice evens out as she dons her work persona. It kind of hurts to see her pretending, even though there’s a part of him that is immensely attracted to her professionalism, the kind of stern-ness that implies she’s about to verbally spank someone with a pleasant smile. “Fred’s nice, I guess. We’re sort of friends. He teaches this weird Freshman class on how to study and choose a major at ZU; I’ve done a few guest lectures. He asked me out, and I said yes, even though neither of us were really...enthusiastic about each other. He was interested in the idea of sex, and it’s not like _I_ was getting any. We trusted that my birth control would be enough. It wasn't.”

He winces for effect and pushes aside the guilt — she’s not accusing him, but it kind of feels like this is partly his fault even though logically it isn’t. “Yeesh, Carrots, way to crank up the romance. You seem...I can't think of a word that means “negative on the enthusiasm scale,” so let's go with that.”

“It’s _kits,_ Nick,” she tells him, dropping out of professionalism and into outright anger. “I didn't plan for this! I didn't _want_ this!”

“Well,” he replies delicately, knowing he’s about to step into some controversial waters, “if you don't want them...ah, we _do_ have abortion laws for a reason.”

She slumps. “I didn't catch it in time. Jane Roe was a deer. Each trimester is about 74 days for them. The average bunny gestation is only a month. I didn't even know I was pregnant until Fred proposed to me. _He knew before I did._ So yeah. Unwanted kits in a week and a new, definitely-not-interested-sorry-about-getting-you-pregnant husband, if my parents get their way.”

“You're getting _married?”_

“I don’t want to. It’s not like I love him, but what else am I supposed to do? Cut back my hours or — or give the litter to Fred and wash my paws of it? It’s not just about me, it’s about other bunnies too. It looks bad if I _can’t balance kits and career._ I have an image to maintain as the Mayor’s only living Initiative success.”

They don't mention the reason the Mammal Inclusion Initiative has been neglected. Jack Savage, the first bunny cop, sacrificed his own life to prove that Dawn Bellwether was drugging predators. The recordings from the museum pit, wherein the bunny cop’s civilian associate was darted and proceeded to _eat_ him, still haunt Nick’s dreams three and a half years after the fact. He’s not surprised that Evangeline Konn killed herself shortly after being given the antidote.

He tries to smile charmingly despite the overbearing gloom. “Am I invited? Oh, please say I'm allowed to come and see the Great Judy Hopps sign away her life.”

“You know as well as I do that...if I do this, if I...it would be a terrible idea.” She’s talking to the table, but she might as well be stabbing him. “Fred’s the father of this — the kits, but I don’t love him. I don’t even know him. And you...you make me _burn,_ Nick. I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone else. There. Now I’ve said it.”

What can he even say to that? _Don’t marry him, marry me?_ He knows exactly how that would go. Nick would have a hell of a time getting recognized as her husband, let alone the legal father of her kits — if she’d even _want_ him to — and he doesn’t even _like_ kits, so at least with Fred around they’ll have one parent who wants them. And a million things.

Her toes creep up and under his pant leg, and even that small amount of contact shoots a heat through him. Although he tries to be stern, it comes out as a plea. _“Judy.”_

“My life is ruined,” she says, grasping his paw over the table. “Even if I keep my job and everything works out with Fred, this changes everything.”

He closes his eyes. “I know.”

“But I'm not married today.”

“I _know.”_ He tries not to wriggle as her other foot comes up to nudge his groin. “Carrots, _please-”_

“Come home with me, Nick. Just this once. Just so we can see what it would have been like.”

His eyes fly open. This is reckless and stupid and he hates her for putting him in this position, almost as much as he hates himself for not having the balls to put everything into words before she went and had sex with some college professor who didn’t even appreciate her.

He raises her paw to his muzzle and rests his lips on her wrist. She smells like magic and he’s burning, too, but he’s not going to bend to regret and pregnancy hormones, so this one little thing is all they’ll ever get.

“I’m sorry I let you down,” he tells her, absolutely sincere and absolutely furious with himself.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she replies, fiddling with her glass. He has the urge to reach over the table and take it away, but she pushes it and stands up roughly. With fury in her own voice, she adds, “You didn’t do anything _at all.”_

He doesn’t try to stop her from storming out, because, well. She’s right. He didn’t do anything when he had the chance, and now the chance is gone.

* * *

He erases more texts to Judy in the next two weeks than he actually sends to the rest of his contacts combined, most of them variants of _I’m so sorry,_ but they range from acerbic _(I hope he was worth it)_ to desperate _(Please marry me instead)._ He _almost_ sends the most desperate one of all _(Hey, how are you?)_ but catches himself at the last minute.

He throws himself into his new case, another shitbag sex offender who is, annoyingly, going to garner sympathy with a jury if he and Gesa can’t swing a reasonable deal. He Zoogles “rabbits and polyamory,” and is treated to too much porn, a plethora of “fluff-chaser” message boards, and a scant few ethological articles detailing strange behaviors of “primitive” rabbits after losing their mates. He eats lots of takeout.

He settles on quietly loathing his client, because it’s better than loathing himself, and it’s more constructive to focus on her case than to dwell on what could have been had he actually committed to his scary, dangerous feelings.

And then he gets a text message: _Nick: Please tell the prosecutor to contact River Valley Psychiatric. Thank you. Cotton._

The thing is, Nick knows Judy. He knows that she’s prone to overwork and unhealthy habits that would probably raise a few eyebrows outside of their profession, and he knows that she would rather eat her own liver than check herself into a psych ward. It would take a complete psychotic break... _or a court order_ to get her there. Nick’s familiar with the criminal code and basic court procedures for every other type of law _in his own province,_ but outside of it? Bunnyburrow is in the Tri-Burrows area, miles and miles away from Nick’s jurisdiction. _What_ cotton has to do with anything, he doesn’t know, but if Judy’s actually had a psychotic break, that’s good information too. So, even though it’s 10PM on a Sunday, he scrolls through his contacts and calls.

“This is Gesa,” the Zoo County prosecutor answers promptly.

“I’m calling about Judy Hopps,” he says, before she can write him off. The amount of lawyers in their circle is actually quite small; he knows she has his contact saved, and even if she didn’t, she would recognize his voice. “It’s important.”

“She had better be in a hospital somewhere,” she tells him, “because she was supposed to be back Friday.”

Did she not even tell her boss she was pregnant? How very Judy. God, this is complicated. “The thing is, G, I think she _is,_ and I don’t think it’s voluntary. She sent me a...pretty cryptic text that just said to tell you to contact _River Valley Psychiatric._ I don’t know why she wouldn’t just text you-”

“Because everyone and their mother knows I’m her boss, but you’re just a friend. River Valley is one of the theory cases we’ve been kicking around our office. As much as I’d _love_ to discuss the legal gray area of outdated psychiatry practices with you, it seems I have an employee to collect and a hospital staff to terrorize. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

It’s as much emotion as he’s ever heard from the stuffy raccoon, and he hates that it’s because of Judy, although some part of him is proud of her for getting her boss to care. He’s still angry with himself, and angry with Judy even though he has no reason to be, and when Gesa hangs up on him — as he expected — he almost goes back to his case. But. Something’s wrong, and Judy’s with somebody else, maybe even married by now, but that doesn’t mean Nick can just randomly stop being in love with her. So he brings up a new tab in his browser and looks up River Valley Psychiatric Hospital.

Interestingly, and worryingly, the actual site for the hospital is the third non-paid result. The first result is a news article: Haley Springle, 19, tells all about her traumatic experience with conversion therapy, complete with anonymous quotes from other mammals ranging from age 15 to age 39 about their own “therapy.” The second result is a negatively-spun interview with Dr. Alford Sprout, who swears by the practice of “rest therapy” and believes it never should have been phased out, and whose veneration of Dr. Silas Mitcheel makes him sound like one of the quacks from the early 20th century. But this isn’t some anachronistic dystopia, this is 2019, and he has half a mind to go find out what’s going on.

He won’t. She didn’t ask for him. It makes sense; even without the added complication of Fred and their kits, the most he can do is show up and make noise and _maybe_ get in to see her, or _maybe_ get escorted off the premises. Gesa’s the Zoo County prosecutor, and it looks like maybe River Valley is within the borders of the province after all, and Gesa is also terrifying in a way that Nick isn’t. She has power. A threat from her carries with it implied consequences, even if the implication is just a con. He’ll find out. Maybe he won’t. With as raw as he is, he’s not sure what would be worse.

(That’s a lie. He knows what would be worse. He’s just worried that’s what’s going to happen.)

* * *

Nick hates rape cases almost as much as he hates rapists, because he has to go and argue in front of a judge, jury, and assorted wronged parties that his client did nothing wrong, or his client was just mistaken, or it wasn't really rape, the victim just regretted it the morning after. He has to cross-examine the victims and make them feel like scum just for living their lives, and in the end — whatever the outcome — everyone hates him almost as much as they hate his client. The victim leaves traumatized even further. Even if he negotiates a deal, it doesn't feel like justice. In these cases, everyone loses, even when truth prevails.

At least in murder cases, he never has to ask what the victim was wearing.

He’s haggard and disheveled and basically at the worst he’s been since the bar exam, shaking from too much caffeine and too little sleep and double his usual amount of anxiety, when he opens the door to an equally shaky Judy Hopps, clad in sweats and a hospital bracelet, carrying nothing.

(He’ll forever swear that if he’d been in his right mind, he would have told her to go back to Fred, but one look in her watery purple eyes makes him melt and he steps aside, letting her in. She’ll always be his weakness.)

It’s only been a few days since he got her text, the one about River Valley, but she looks at him like it’s been weeks, like the sight of him is all that's keeping her going. He breathes her in, because married or kits or whatever, he isn't going to give that up.

“Hey, Carrots.”

She leans against his chest, her forehead hitting his breastbone with a _thunk._ It’s not a hug. It’s not even intimate. It’s the action of a tired mammal using the only support available. “So I'm not on maternity leave.”

“No? But I thought bunnies needed...you know, mother’s care. Gesa wouldn’t-”

“I knew it was possible for kits to die if their mother didn't love them. I just didn't realize it could happen before birth. They weren’t coming out, and I got so sick, and...they were just dead, and I had no idea what to say, and I laughed because it didn’t even feel real, it felt like a dream, and I was just so relieved that I wouldn’t have to raise stupid squalling little kits or marry Fred or anything else. The doctor looked at me like I was _nothing,_ and I got a _blue slip,_ and I hate bunnies, Nick, I _hate them._ They made me stay over the weekend for observation, like...like I’d lost my mind. By Monday I almost believed them, that I was some kind of monster for not being overcome by grief, and I couldn’t answer any of their questions, or I answered them wrong, and they had me on these meds that made me lose time. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t focus, I was _so suggestible —_ I kept saying yes to things that were wrong, and I knew they were wrong, but — I was so scared, Nick, and I couldn’t say anything because those pills made me feel like I was underwater and the whole world wasn’t real, and they wouldn’t let me — they wouldn’t let me _move,_ they wouldn’t even let me read, they took my phone away, it — I thought-”

“Judy, you’re hyperventilating,” he tells her, concerned and confused and angry and all the things that come with being in love with someone who’s hurt, and he’s furious with whichever idiot blue slipped her, and he doesn’t ask about the dead litter, but he does drape his arms loosely around her and rock back and forth. It’s a fox thing. Movement is soothing. He breathes in and out slowly, steadily, hoping she can feel it and use him as a guide. She sounds like she’s choking and she’s shaking and he wants to scream, but he just rocks and breathes and rocks and breathes for uncountable minutes until her trembling lessens and she’s no longer gasping for air.

He feels the words pressed against his chest as much as he hears them. “Gesa came all the way to River Valley which she _said_ was a tip from you and also tips from Gideon and Sharla the next day, and she promised they’d be charged with false imprisonment and kidnapping and anything else she could get to stick if they didn’t release me, but it didn’t change their minds. It just got me out of there. I...my niece saved me, Nick. Cotton, she...she stole my phone and texted you and the rest of my friends from my contacts, anyone whose name she recognized.”

It makes him sick, that someone could be that heartless. Especially toward someone as genuine and _good_ as Judy. At least the Cotton thing’s been explained. “Cripes, Carrots. Why would they…?”

She huffs angrily. “It’s cultural. If you don't want kits you’re mentally ill and if you're not grieving you're probably so depressed you’re a danger to yourself and now I’m tired and I feel disgusting, I can’t get that hospital smell out of my nose even though I’ve been out for hours, and I wish I were normal, for once in my life I just want to be _normal.”_

He’s not necessarily surprised by her tears, because they’re logical, but he hates that they exist because it means she’s been hurt. He lets the warm wetness sink into his ridiculously expensive shirt and holds her, because what else can he do? Carefully, as he pets the back of her head along the downward curve of her droopy ears, he says, “Normal is a stupid word they use to invalidate exceptional mammals.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she replies bitterly. Her paws rest on his hips in a pale imitation of a hug, but at least it’s something aside from the limp fall from before. “I don’t want to be a ladder-climber or Jude the Dude or frigid or a workaholic or any of the scads of things they say about me when they think I can't hear them, I just want to be the kind of mammal that somebody can appreciate. I don't want to be corrected, I want to be valued. But I can't, because I'm _Judy Hopps,_ and common consensus is I never should have left the carrot farm.”

Nick drops to his knees and grasps her in a real hug, the kind that makes her ears disappear into the fur on his arms below his rolled-up sleeves. “I don’t know who’s been saying this stuff about you, but they’re wrong. Was it the doctors? Because that is _so_ unethical-”

“Yeah, them, but I don’t care, they’re stupid and backwards and River Valley is _already_ under investigation. If it were only them...it’s everyone at the office except Gesa, even the Mayor sometimes, even though I _know_ he likes me. Little things, _tiny_ things like congratulations because nobody expected me to last this long, or it must be so hard to keep my legs closed — behind my back, they never say it to my face — or I'm just a project, the token bunny, I don't _deserve_ my place in the DA’s office, or they call me cute and dismiss me like I'm a child. And the two bucks in IT...I’m frigid, because I pretend I don't notice they want me, but they don't want _me,_ they just think I'm easy because I'm from a place where everyone has a zillion kits. I'm too obsessed with work because everyone knows I'd fail if I wasn't, or I'm sleeping my way to the top, and I used to be okay with it. It’s not every day, that would be absurd. And it’s interspersed with good things, so it shouldn’t _bother_ me. But it’s enough to bother me anyway; tiny thing after tiny thing piles up for five years...and sometimes I catch myself thinking the same thoughts. It’s _stupid,_ but sometimes I believe them. Sometimes I think if so many mammals think the same thing, maybe there's some truth in it. Everybody can't be wrong. And it almost got me stuck on pills I don’t need that messed me up in really bad ways because I’m _not normal_ enough that who I am is a problem that needs to be fixed.”

It hurts him right in his chest, a grip that tightens with every word. He _knows_ this. It’s the same for him; the attitude, the tiny things, the surprise that he’s lasted this long without succumbing to a fox’s _criminal nature,_ the way mammals will go to the other side of the street to avoid him, the way his clients expect him to perform miracles because apparently all foxes think they’re above the law. The lewd offers from fang-chasing prey who believe he’ll be rough with them because he can’t help it. The backpawed compliments about how he’s one of the good ones.

The overwhelming feeling of self-doubt and insecurity. _Maybe they’re right,_ or _I could quit and become a scam artist and nobody would bat an eye,_ or _Is any of this worth anything if some of the businesses in town still won’t sell to me?_

But none of that is right, and none of that is true. When he was in his worst place, Sean helped him see that bowing to social stereotypes would only make him miserable, and the more mammals cast off those chains, the less likely the next generation will be to believe those generalizations. It shouldn’t be their job to _convince_ mammals that foxes and bunnies are just as good, but what should be and what is are often at odds. “You're better than that, Hopps. Believe it or not, I know a thing or two about public perception.”

“I know. And it’s wretched of me to even consider my situation hard in comparison to yours-”

“If you don't want to be corrected, don't be so silly. It’s not a competition, and anyway, what just happened to you _should not_ have happened, unequivocally. Court rules still apply here. Remember what you said to me in the bar after the Bellwether case? When Lucas Woolworth still had a show?”

 _“Not as bad as it could be_ should never be mistaken for _good,”_ she recites. “If we want to make the world a better place, we can’t settle for _not completely terrible.”_

Because of course she can quote herself verbatim. If he had to guess, he’d say she’s said that to herself so many times it’s basically an inner catchphrase. It’s not something Nick’s ever really internalized, but he gets why the sentiment would be appealing to someone like her.

With a much-softened tone, he says, “You were telling me I shouldn't let them convince me the world was good enough as it was, and I listened because you were right. It’s not about who has it worse, but how we can make it better. You made me believe in you, Judy. Don't back out on me now.”

She backs up, looking frustrated. “What if I'm not worth believing in?”

The question throws him. “Where is this _coming from?_ What kind of question is that?”

“Maybe I'm terrible,” she says with fire in her voice. Her expression changes into something painfully fake, aggression she probably copied from somewhere. He’s seen her look aggressive, in the courtroom and the time they dealt with bigots who tried to play _taunt the fox,_ and this isn’t it. This is the kind of aggression Nick had to work through in high school and undergrad, the kind that allowed him to preemptively write off negative opinions about his character because he made them true. “You can't know what's in my head. Maybe I’m the kind of deviant who wants to never let you out of bed. Maybe I want to steal everything that you are. Maybe I want to...to...to beat you black and blue, use you till there's nothing left.”

“Oh my God,” he whispers, but it's not because he’s disgusted, like she so clearly hopes he’ll be. It’s because he knows for a fact that she’s always had this little fantasy, and he’s been idly fantasizing about her drunk texts for two years now, and he feels a little, guilty, inappropriate shot of arousal bloom inside him, and it’s all because of some dirty words Judy spoke in a moment of frustration. He’s always known this was the kind of thing that could cut through his many layers of self-discipline, although he’s never been particularly invested in trying it, but he’s still surprised that he’s so...susceptible. His claws prick into her casual sweater and her leg rubs against his groin, and as she looks at him in surprise, he asks, _“Is_ that what you want? Tell me what you want from me and it’ll be done, I swear.”

Her swallow looks painful. “I want...you. I’m awful, Nick, but this isn’t just because I want to forget. It’s because I’m so sick of holding back and I don’t want to waste any more time pretending what we have isn’t real. I want to keep you and feel you and I just _want_ you.”

“You _have_ me,” he says, because it’s the truth in every way that matters. “I'm literally on my knees for you, right now, in my best suit, that cost more than a month’s worth of rent. I'm yours, in whatever capacity you need me.”

She reaches out and kisses him, and it’s like fire, a white heat in his belly, and he wants more of her flavor. She tastes like carrots and vinegar and something underneath that sighs on his tongue and takes his breath away. She tugs his collar up and he follows, even though it’s awkward to bend down and kiss her while standing; she pushes him kiss by kiss toward the bed in his trash heap of a studio apartment, past the stack of case studies and piles of photographic evidence, past the thirteen styrofoam Espress Yourself cups he never bothered to throw away, until he hits the edge of the bed. He can’t remember the reason they shouldn’t be doing this, and by the time she goes for his belt buckle it never mattered anyway.

Peeling away his pants and undergarments is painful, but the sight of her pulling off her sweatshirt is worth it. Her chest fur is soft and fluffy and wonderful, and he rests his snout against her breast just to feel it.

“Up,” she says, and he scrambles onto the mattress, melting as she rubs herself on him. Her sweatpants slide off like they aren’t even there, and one of his shirt buttons pops off and skitters under the bed, but who cares? He has more. He can afford another. Shirts are stupid anyway. He’d forego them entirely if he could feel this all the time.

You always see males hover over females in movies, and it’s never been his thing to take the lead but he figures that a change is worth the effort when you love someone enough to be open with her, so he flips them. Her head doesn't even go near the foot of his bed, although he can see it without moving more than his eyes. One of his paws grasps the rail for support while the other dips down to skate across her rounded belly and down the generous curve of her hip, but before he can try anything else, she pushes him into a sitting position again, an awkward splay he fixes by scooting against the headboard.

“Stay,” she tells him, and God help him, he does as she says. Her tone is a warning, and it makes him pulse. She is all the things he’s ever wanted in one tiny body. There’s something in his head about maybe he felt stitches and something else about — well, he can’t think.

A hesitation, barely there, and then she says, “I want to make you feel good.”

“I’m okay with that,” he replies, and his voice is shaky but that’s fine. If he’s going to lose control, at least it’s here, in his apartment, with Judy, who isn’t hurtful enough take advantage of whatever vulnerability he ends up displaying.

She eyes him, sizing him up like she sizes up a defendant, critical and calculating. He imagines statistics running through her head, relative sizes, and he feels small and powerful all at once, but then she defies expectations and lowers her head, licking at the head of his penis, coaxing him out with gentle strokes and open-mouthed kisses and a knuckle against his perineum. It’s like she knows, instinctively, where to press and what to do, and either she’s experienced or just really lucky, but either way, _he’s_ the lucky one, words caught in his chest along with a simmering mixture of pleasure and lust and amazement.

She’s so gorgeous. He never fantasized about this, but the image of her mouth around his cock has been burned into his brain, and he’ll never forget it. He’s hot, and she’s hot, and her mouth is wet and warm and he tries to stay silent, but some weird groaning noise escapes anyway. It makes her hum, which does _not_ help his self-control, and then she opens her mouth wide, drawing him in and down into her throat.

 _Right,_ rabbits don’t have a gag reflex.

Sensation radiates through him, tightening everything, blurring his vision and magnifying his hearing. His claws prick into his mattress and he tries not to move, because it seems like that’s just _too far,_ and how does he even fit, and she’s still sucking and swallowing like he’s water. She holds his hips down when he wriggles, so he reaches up to grip the headrail and gasps at the pressure. The moment stretches, the obscene sound of mucosa against engorged flesh the only thing louder than his pounding heart, and then he begs, because he has to and because he’s always wanted to and now he gets to.

“Please, Judy, I'm about to — please, _please,_ Judy, I want-” And then he realizes he’s going to cum right down her throat if she keeps it up, so he pleads, “You can't just-”

But apparently, she can. He spirals, brain askew, as she gulps down what she can, letting the excess spill out of the sides of her mouth. His mouth drops open at the sight, and his throat moans without his permission, and his vaguely arthritic knuckles scream as he clasps the headrail tight enough to bruise, and she gives his testicles a little pat, like _good boy, I'm proud of you._

He doesn’t whimper, _really,_ but if someone happened to put it like that, he wouldn't have a convincing rebuttal.

She crawls toward him, wipes her mouth, and offers her paw to him, maybe more of a question than a demand, but he licks it off anyway. Not a pleasant taste, but her elation is more than worth it. She shudders, eyes falling shut, and he licks her wrist, too, because he knows it’s a sensitive spot.

“I want,” he begins, and then he stops, because what he wants is whatever will make her happy. He tries again. “Would you like me to...reciprocate?”

Law school did _not_ prepare him for this. He can drunk-argue the constitutional and common-law bases for _Hoofing v Furginia,_ and he can thoughtlessly debate whether or not Title IX ought to preclude college campuses from conducting their own assault investigations without the help of the police, but he doesn't have the words to ask her for the chance to make her feel like she’s on top of the world.

“I would _like_ you to tell me how that felt,” she tells him, crawling up to wrap her arms around his torso, “and then hold me until I fall asleep.”

Her hospital bracelet catches on his fur. He pretends it isn't there.

“It was new,” he says, stroking her ears. Whatever she wants. He’ll give her anything, now that he knows he can. “It felt like I was part of you. Like I belonged to you. The LSAT doesn't test for a word that intense, though, so that's all I can really say.”

“New?” Her laugh is a little stuttering, but it’s genuine enough. “Haven't you ever had a blowjob before?”

“Never had anything before,” he confesses. “I’ve dated, and tried some things, and I’ve gone down on someone before, but I wasn’t interested in — you know, sex, until you came along and did that thing where you're sexy and amazing all the time.”

“So I could have been the worst _ever_ and you'd still think it was awesome?”

“If it’s you, it’s the best.”

She snuggles into his chestfur, grinning. “I needed that. Thanks.”

She’s still shaking though, and he thinks that should probably be addressed sometime in the near future. Maybe not now. But soon. “Why, exactly, are you thanking me? You did all the work. You didn’t even get anything back.”

“I’m not so reckless as to have sex, or even risk an orgasm, when I still have stitches from where they had to cut me open.” She nuzzles his chest. “But that's not really the point, Nick. You told me I could have you, and then you let me have you. It's nice to know that you're not full of platitudes, like everybody else.”

“Everybody else _wishes_ they were me,” he says, and drops a kiss on her brow. Nothing is fixed, but it seems a little better anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> There's this cultural concept that women who don't want children are Bad and Wrong, even IRL. Imagine, then, that you exist between worlds: one side believes you're somehow broken because you're not performing your species correctly because it doesn't fit their presumptuous narrative (Zootopian non-rabbits who believe all bunnies must want kits, that bunnies are incapable of balancing work and family, and use that as one of their "justifications" to exclude them from the professional sphere), and the other side believes that you must be broken because you're not performing your species correctly because it doesn't fit _their_ presumptuous narrative (non-Zootopian rabbits whose large families are a point of pride and security, because having a large family used to mean you were strong enough to fight off those who wanted to eat you, and therefore, a big part of rabbit attractiveness hinges on fertility even in queer spaces).
> 
> Although this was always going to be part of the series, I also don't want it to become the series. Judy's miscarriage isn't a defining characteristic. She's not going to agonize over her apparent infertility; she's not sad about it, and she's certainly not sad about losing a litter she never wanted in the first place. Involuntary commitment is traumatizing, but this actually sets the stage for a future case that is close to my heart. So. This is a one-shot because it's an important collection of moments in time that help Nick and Judy get their heads on straight and decide what's important to them, but the overall tone of the series henceforth is supposed to be lighter, so this wouldn't fit into the next multichapter installment.


End file.
